


madonna-whore complex (Chanyeol/Sehun, Chanyeol/Kai)

by Rei_Rei (anti60ne)



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Adultery, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 02:32:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anti60ne/pseuds/Rei_Rei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love. - Freud</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	madonna-whore complex (Chanyeol/Sehun, Chanyeol/Kai)

**genre:** angst, erotica (according to Laura)  
 **pairing:** Chanyeol/Sehun, Chanyeol/Kai  
 **rating:** NC-17  
 **word count:** 2343  
 **summary:** _Where such men love they have no desire and where they desire they cannot love. - Freud_

A/N: again, xoxo to Laura for being an amazing beta who has spoiled me with excessive compliments. 

  


 

{one}

When his lips embrace Jongin's warm tongue, he feels no tingling sensation down the back of his throat. Yet he doesn't pull back. Chanyeol leans in and dives, and he plummets into the abyss of lust, where Jongin is waiting for him, smirking.

It has been over two weeks--or was it three? He's lost count--after Chanyeol's first encounter with Jongin. Time is shoved aside by timelessness, hands on his watch have long disappeared. Jongin is the epitome of everything unreal and everything too-real, an out-of-body experience.

But this only happens when they fuck so hard that their minds are distraught with the numbness of everything save for the roars of their heartbeats against bared chests, the surging blood of Chanyeol's cock inside Jongin, who quakes into oblivion.

There isn't a time when they part their separate ways without some sort of penetration. Not that Chanyeol remembers, anyway. They fuck in the dilapidated bathroom in the back of Katz's Deli, nearly falling through the poorly hinged stall, an unconcern to either of them. They fuck in the backseat of Jongin's disgustingly expensive BMW, smearing the leather with sex and sweat and something that urgently requires a car wash. They fuck on the island centered in Chanyeol's kitchen, Jongin's ass grazing against the marble, pots and pans clanking above endless grunts and swears, a distorted symphony of depraved disregard. They fuck, because that's the only thing they know how to do around each other.

No alternative exists. Not for Chanyeol. As for Jongin, it doesn't matter.

Jongin has invited himself into Chanyeol's apartment a few times, and Chanyeol lets him when he's 200% positive Sehun won't be back until hours later. Most of the time, however, Chanyeol is the one peering up the six-story brick complex on Hester Street at two in the morning, his phone dialing a memorized number he never bothered to save.

Jongin is always awake, as if anticipating Chanyeol to crawl back to him and into his bed that feels so warm it bites. Chanyeol pushes Jongin backward the instant the door opens and they stumble into darkness, lights unneeded and reason unheeded. Chanyeol doesn't offer an explanation and Jongin doesn't demand one. He never does, because explanations are yearned only by those who care.

There is no morning-after, and Jongin wakes up to the other side of his bed gone cold, as if the previous night has merely been a dream, one of those that he's not even sure if it happened at all. He would like to think that Chanyeol never stays because he has someone else, in a different bed, to go back to. Jongin effortlessly steers away from the possibility that he may be the underlying reason, because why should he be when Chanyeol lets himself plunge into Jongin with unparalleled abandon.

So Jongin doesn't let the solo awakening bother him.

But the sheets smell like Chanyeol, the scent that is saturated in the rifts of his body, the whiffs that carry themselves to Jongin's fingertips when he traces the outline of Chanyeol's face. Jongin stares out the high-rise window, his eyes vacant. Eventually, he drags himself out of bed and peels off the sheets. He pads into the laundry room and stuffs the soiled fabric into the washing machine.

Maybe he is too naive to think, even in the back of his subconscious, that as he cleans his sheets, he could wash away little bits of Chanyeol.

 

{two}

Sehun never understands why Chanyeol would not touch him. The airy brushes of the arm and fleeting hugs aside, Chanyeol has not conceded more than kisses on the lips. Calling it a concession underscores the reluctance that Sehun senses in Chanyeol for physical intimacy. It's strange, ineffable, really, considering it is now four weeks and counting--yes, Sehun keeps track of things like this--since the inception of their exclusive relationship. Sehun is not the type to push, but he is certainly the type of dwell on unanswered questions, gnawing his insides like the undead.

Chanyeol worships Sehun. It is the kind of adoration that one only reads about in faultlessly crafted love stories that idealize the romantic relationship, and then succumbs to utter amazement because how is it possible that a person can cherish, _revere_ , someone else in such a selfless manner? The embodiment of agape does not exist in the world made of flesh and blood.

Yet it does, in the mind of Chanyeol, in which Sehun is the apple of his eye, forever sitting on the apex of a pyramid that Chanyeol struggles to climb.

Sehun knows that Chanyeol occasionally disappears in the dead of the night, and does not return until moments before the break of dawn. He knows that sometimes, Chanyeol has been elsewhere before meeting him for lunch, his clothes spritzed with a trace of mint and his hair slightly damp. Sehun knows a lot of things, none of which he ever plans to reveal to Chanyeol.

But there is also a vast amount that Sehun does not know. He does not know that on the mornings after stayed-in nights, Chanyeol watches his still face wrapped in the comfort of sleep, unblinking and unthinking. Sehun does not know that before Chanyeol marks their bed with his absence, he brushes away Sehun's bangs and places an indiscernible kiss on his forehead with immeasurable caution, as if he is terrified of breaking something fragile.

In some way, that is an indisputable truth. To Chanyeol, Sehun will shatter into more pieces than he can put together, sizzled and charred to unholy embers, as if his touch bears forces from a dimension much darker than his own mind.

Chanyeol is mortified of the possibility; as irrational as it sounds in his head, it sounds perfectly plausible in the frayed corners of his heart.

At times, Chanyeol regrets asking Sehun to be with him. He remembers that moment so clearly still, _"Be with me, because I can't live without you."_ Chanyeol should have known that more than one form of living exists, and he failed to take into account the way his body lives when he was so caught up in how Sehun made his soul come alive.

It is this emotional bond between them that appeases Sehun and consoles Chanyeol. Sehun is still Chanyeol's safe haven, and by some unfathomable rule of the universe, they both know that nothing is going to change that.

But Chanyeol still finds himself in a battle he is bound to lose, lust lacerating love with no mercy.

 

{three}

It begins to drizzle when Chanyeol's phone rings, the tone bouncing through the empty hallway out of his office. Everyone has already left; he has had to work overtime today due to some urgent matters. Chanyeol rubs his heavy eyes and plucks his phone from the pants pocket.

He blinks at the string of digits on the screen. It's been a while since he sees this number, the one he never bothered to save and yet somehow managed to remember.

Worrying his lips, Chanyeol debates with himself whether to answer the call. He has been trying so hard, even taken the effort to mark on a desk calendar (which he keeps safely on his work desk, of course) each day that has passed without seeing Jongin. Each time he draws a shocking red X in the little square indicating the date, Chanyeol feels less guilty toward Sehun, as if office supplies symbolize the sacrificial lamb, substituting as his sacrifice.

His phone continues to ring. Chanyeol strains to remember today's date, the number that was crossed out by his red Sharpie this morning.

A colleague pops his head out of his cubicle and tosses Chanyeol a peeved glance, starling him. Unthinking, Chanyeol answers the call.

He shudders upon Jongin's first syllable, the husky voice radiating so easily into his core, and Chanyeol just knows.

He has reached the point of no return.

Jongin does not ask him to meet. He chats with unabashed grins that Chanyeol could envision on the face he's already itching to touch, the largely one-way dialogue short of _where-have-you-been_ 's and _have-you-been-avoiding-me_ 's. Chanyeol knows Jongin is not the clingy type; his pride disallows him to grovel emotionally. But maybe Jongin knows Chanyeol can't quit him, or maybe he was gambling with the weakness of Chanyeol's resolve.

Maybe Chanyeol knows, too, because simply hearing Jongin's voice propels his feet in the direction of the downtown 1 train, and moments later, Chanyeol finds himself standing on Hester Street, chilled rain seeping through his Burberry trench coat and into his bones.

He looks up and sees Jongin standing behind a half-open window, topless, as if he has foreseen Chanyeol's surrender, already prepared.

Chanyeol ignores the elevator this time and takes the stairs. He doesn't hear the thuds of his shoes on the steps, or the pumps of his blood against his ears. He is oblivious to all except that his mind begins unraveling and his soul dying, and it feels devastatingly familiar.

Chanyeol freezes when Jongin opens the door before he even attempts to knock. Jongin cocks an eyebrow at the soaked and immobile figure, amusement tugging at his lips. He raises a hand and thumbs away the water on Chanyeol's cheek.

That's all it takes to set him on fire.

It takes Jongin by slight surprise when Chanyeol skips the foreplay and regardlessly yanks his cotton sweatpants off. Chanyeol undresses himself with a desperate velocity, his fingers moving on their own with adulterous precision. Jongin laughs when Chanyeol throws him onto the bed, but further chuckles turn into cries at the unexpected thrust.

The way he fucks this time is unyielding, unforgiving, unfeeling. It tears Jongin apart, but he doesn't whine because at least, Chanyeol is back with his scent and body temperature that have lingered in Jongin's darkest dreams.

Chanyeol pulls out when he comes, marking Jongin's stomach with remnants of himself. Jongin reaches his own release as Chanyeol slumps and rolls to the side, their labored breaths thundering in the quiet stretched between them.

Jongin falls asleep without a word, and Chanyeol watches, for the first time.

Nausea grips and twists his insides as Sehun's face blurs in and out of focus, overlapping Jongin's.

Chanyeol stumbles out of bed and runs into the bathroom. He chokes on dry spits and pukes up bile.

He rinses his mouth, crummy with white lies and regrets. He looks in the mirror and tries to blink his swollen eyes open.

He slips out of Jongin's apartment, swaying from a vertigo that begins to haunt him. He flags a taxi with trembling arms and ignores the nauseating feeling pooled in his stomach, because he has to go home and see Sehun, to _feel_ him.

It is pouring.

 

{four}

When Chanyeol tiptoes into the bedroom, panting and water dripping from his disheveled hair, the bedside lamp flickers on, startling him.

Sehun is awake.

Chanyeol's heart sinks to a depth he didn't know existed.

Sehun says nothing. He gazes at Chanyeol, eyes without warmth or emotions, not even anger or hurt.

Despite his violently shaking body, Chanyeol trudges toward the bed. He gingerly sits down on the edge, eyes pleading. Sehun looks away, but remains still.

Chanyeol whispers an apology, knowing that it is probably futile and his mistakes have already drowned both of them. But he tries, anyway, _as he has been in the past weeks_. He wishes Sehun knew how hard he tried.

An "I love you" hitches in Chanyeol's throat, but he swallows it, dry and hard and painful. Words are defective remedies when you are mute by the death of your soul.

Sehun shuts the light, and Chanyeol bursts into tears as darkness engulfs him, devouring him alive. He sobs into his rain-stained hands and numbness overtakes him and for a moment, Chanyeol is convinced that he is actually dead. Until a hand creeps up his back and tentative arms embrace his shoulders.

He has underestimated how forgiving Sehun was.

Or perhaps, Sehun simply could not bear watching Chanyeol get dismantled by guilt, or perhaps he was glad that at least Chanyeol came home at last, like the prodigal son, shamed by his ignorance of the infinite love waiting for him.

But redemption is one and the same, and Chanyeol leaves behind his own ghosts and holds onto Sehun with abandonment.

Chanyeol kisses Sehun with a fervor that was previously reserved for someone else. Sehun doesn't show his astonishment when he feels Chanyeol's still-wet hand reach in underneath his shirt, fingers ghosting across the shivers on his skin. Sehun presses closer against him, pushing the drenched fabric that stubbornly clings to Chanyeol's skin off his shoulders and for once, Sehun hears no voices nagging in the back of his head that used to drive him into uncertainty.

So he doesn't stop. And neither does Chanyeol.

They let themselves be carried on waves of adrenaline and boiling blood. Storms rise beneath Sehun's skin and he begins to crave more of Chanyeol, the way he touches, the way he kisses, the way he breathes against his skin, the way he moves inside him. And he forgets, a little too easily, because love makes amnesia more pleasant than a disease should be.

Unfortunately, redemption comes with a price.

Between seeing and unseeing, Chanyeol's eyes betray him, stabbing him in the back of his mind with cursory images of Jongin writhing underneath him, screaming his name. He blinks several times and Sehun is back into focus again, but it hurts a little more each time his mind and heart have to restart in sync.

The pain subsides when Sehun kisses him and brings him back into the reality of righted wrongs and perfected flaws.

Sehun drifts into sleep. Chanyeol watches, as he has in the past and will in the future, before his eyes fall shut in unprecedented exhaustion.

Chanyeol is jolted awake by the vibration of his phone. He squints at the overly bright screen.

He quietly pads out of the room, phone in hand, still vibrating.


End file.
